


Find It in the Dictionary Under 'L'

by infinitevariety (disapparater)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/infinitevariety
Summary: Demons can’t feel love, but Aziraphale can’t help noticing how much Crowley’s suddenly flinging the word around.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 190





	Find It in the Dictionary Under 'L'

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, I guess?
> 
> Thanks to Katie for the beta.

“I love it when the roads are empty.”

Although Crowley throws the words out casually as he speeds through the quiet roads of London at 3am, they weigh heavy in Aziraphale’s mind.

“Does the fact there aren’t other road users slowing you down not mean you could perhaps stick to the speed limit?”

“Why would I do that?”

Aziraphale stops wringing his hands long enough to grip his seat as they take a sharp bend at God-only-knows miles per hour.

“To prevent me discorporating from terror?”

“You need to relax, angel, it’s not that bad.”

Despite his words, the Bentley slows to only 30 miles an hour over the current 40 miles an hour limit. Aziraphale knows better than to acknowledge the concession or, God-forbid, thank Crowley for it.

“Tell me that when I’m trying to convince Heaven to provide me with another body,” he mumbles instead.

Crowley must hear, though, as their speed drops by another 10 miles an hour. Aziraphale’s fingers release their hold on the leather.

A sigh, then Crowley says, “I love London at this hour.”

There it is again. The L-word.

Since arma-didn’t Aziraphale has noticed Crowley toss the word around much more freely—and frequently—than ever before. ‘I love this song,’ he’d said as Seven Seas of Rhye came unexpectedly blaring out of the Bentley’s speakers last time they’d taken a late night drive. ‘I love this wine,’ he’d said as they partook in a bottle or five with their meal at The Wolseley a couple of weeks ago. ‘I love switching push and pull signs,’ he’d said as he watched people struggle with doors from the the bakery window while Aziraphale bought pains au chocolat. ‘I love the peace and quiet here,’ he’d said, lounging almost perpendicular on the sofa in Aziraphale’s bookshop just yesterday.

He’s a demon, so Aziraphale knows it doesn’t _mean_ anything. He’d know if Crowley meant it; he’d _feel_ the love, if it was possible. But he still thinks the fact that Crowley has used the word ‘love’ more times in the past few months than in the 6000 years before abort-ageddon is too momentous to go unnoticed.

And so Aziraphale notices. He catalogues the utterances and collects the moments in his memory like the books in his shop, having decided they are just as precious.

By the time Crowley drops him off at the bookshop an hour and several pending speeding tickets later, Aziraphale has counted a handful more. Crowley loves the cloudless night sky, the screech of the Bentley’s tyres, the night owls still out on the streets, and the moonlight reflecting off the Thames. Apparently.

“Lunch tomorrow at Chiltern Firehouse?” Aziraphale asks as he climbs out of the car on unsteady legs.

“I’d love to, angel,” replies Crowley before the passenger door slams shut and he drives away.

-

Lunch turns into dinner, turns into the theatre, turns into drinks at the bookshop. Crowley has claimed to love 14 things so far today. Aziraphale has catalogued them all.

They are sitting next to each other on the sofa. Well, Aziraphale is sitting while Crowley slouches, one leg over the arm. They are onto their second bottle of wine—not counting the bottle with lunch, the two bottles with dinner, and the several glasses at the theatre. Aziraphale feels pleasantly light-headed and carefree.

“I do love The Seagull. It was a great performance, don’t you think?”

Fifteen.

Aziraphale is just drunk enough to let his mouth run away with him.

“Now, Crowley, when you say you _love_ The Seagull…?”

Crowley’s free hand gestures wildly. “Figure of speech, angel.” His voice turns glum as he adds, “I know I can’t actually love anything.”

It’s only what Aziraphale expected, but hearing Crowley say it is like a sucker punch to the gut.

“The theatre wine wasn’t bad either, huh?”

They move to lighter topics and more well-trodden ground, but it stays on Aziraphale’s mind for the rest of the night.

-

It’s still on Aziraphale’s mind the next day. And throughout the next week. It gnaws at him. The way Crowley so casually dismissed his lack of capacity to love just doesn’t seem right, somehow. Crowley said he can’t feel love, and Aziraphale has never been able to feel love from him… but. There’s a but there somewhere.

It comes to Aziraphale one morning while making a cup of tea. Crowley might not feel love, but he _shows_ it. He smiles widely when Queen start playing in the Bentley, singing along when he’s feeling particularly blithe. He spends time choosing the best wine to compliment their meal at restaurants, so they will appreciate it all the more. He plays harmless practical jokes that cause no real damage to indulge his wicked side. He takes his sunglasses off and naps on the sofa in the bookshop—and he _always_ uses a coaster. He _cares_.

Crowley might not feel love, but he his actions speak of love nonetheless.

-

A few days later, after a stroll through St James’ and dinner at Céleste, they are back at the bookshop. This time they are drinking scotch and Crowley is waxing lyrical about highland cattle.

“They’re just so… hairy, you know?”

“Hairy’s the word,” agrees Aziraphale.

“And those impressive horns.” Crowley raises a finger to either side of his head to illustrate. “Yet they look so gentle and unassuming. I just love them.”

That’s nine so far today. _Of course_ Aziraphale is still counting, cataloguing, collecting.

“You _love_ —”

“Hyperbole, angel. Turn of phrase. Expression. I’m _fond_ of the damn things, is all I’m saying.”

“But, have you—” Aziraphale tips back the rest of his scotch and worries his fingers on his trousers.

Crowley waits, expectantly.

“Have you _never_ felt love? Nothing even close? Never cared for something? Some… one?”

“I just said I’m fond of the blasted cows, what more do you want?”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip juts out entirely of its own accord.

“I feel affection,” Crowley concedes with a sigh. “I _like_ things and people well enough. It’s just not _love_ , because it can’t be.” He shrugs, apparently nonplussed.

“I suppose I can’t imagine _not_ feeling love,” Aziraphale confesses. “I don’t know how to care for things—for people—with _out_ love.” He hesitates, but blunders on with his scotch-loosened tongue. “I suppose I don’t understand how you can care about… about _me_ … if you don’t—”

“I care about you, angel.” Crowley quickly discards his sunglasses and grips tightly to Aziraphale’s arm. “Of course I care about you. My feelings for you are probably as close as I can come to love. No one knows me like you do.”

Crowley’s voice is so earnest, Aziraphale melts a little, he’s sure.

“Six thousand years, my dear. I assure you the sentiment is entirely mutual.” Aziraphale can feel his cheeks heat and blames it entirely on his empty glass of scotch.

“I enjoy your company, your humour, your shop,” Crowley continues. “I can’t imagine life without your uptight fussiness, our philosophical debates, and your entirely indecent eating habits. I would literally walk through fire for you, Aziraphale—already have done, in fact.” He pauses, the grip on Aziraphale’s arm tightening before letting go. “ _Of course_ I care about you.”

Aziraphale is astounded by Crowley’s declaration. Because of his vehemence, but also because Aziraphale feels _exactly the same_. And that’s _love_ , and how can Crowley not _know_ that?

“Crowley, dear, that’s—that’s how I feel, too.”

“I know it is, angel—I know you care about me.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, well, _yes_ , but I don’t just care about you. I _love_ you.”

Crowley’s smile is small. “I know that, too. S’in your job description, right? Angel. Loves all creatures. Great and small. And evil.”

Now Crowley is just being obtuse. Aziraphale bangs his still-empty glass down on the coffee table and is satisfied when Crowley jumps. He stands, turns to face Crowley, and when he speaks his words are low and quiet and heavy.

“First of all, you’re not evil. Stupid, maybe, but not evil. Secondly, I don’t love you like that. Or, rather, I _do_ love you like that, except I love you a hell of a lot more besides. I enjoy spending time with you. I laugh at your terrible jokes. I let you drive me around London at ridiculous speeds for fun. I trust you—trusted you enough to _let_ you walk my body through fire.”

He pauses for breath and long enough to register the shock on Crowley’s face. To see the cogs working behind his wide, yellow eyes.

“And _you_ —” He starts again. “—you _slow down_ in that blasted car when you know it’s too much for me. You order desserts you know you won’t eat so that I can. You bring me bookmarks because you know I’ve got one in every damn book. How is that not love?”

“Maybe—” Crowley fumbles for his words. “Maybe it would be love, for anyone else. But I’m a demon, angel. I _can’t_ love—it’s not possible.”

“Crowley, my _dear_.” Aziraphale takes a deep breath. He stands determined in front of Crowley’s incredulity. “I know you don’t believe it, but what if that’s what’s stopping you—what if you _can?_ ”

Crowley’s eyes go wide, the sudden revelation at Aziraphale’s words plain on his face. And then all at once Aziraphale feels it. It rolls off of Crowley in immense waves. At first it washes Aziraphale’s uncertainties clean away, but it soon becomes more intense. A tsunami that literally knocks Aziraphale off his feet and into the armchair behind him.

 _Love_.

For a moment Aziraphale thinks he might drown in it. Isn’t entirely certain he doesn’t want to. Then almost as quickly as it hit, the flood recedes, leaving Aziraphale floating peacefully in a warm pool of effortless love.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he manages.

“I—Aziraphale, I _love_ you.”

Crowley sounds awestruck, and Aziraphale lets out a burst of breathless laughter.

“I rather thought you might.”

“I love you,” Crowley says again. “I love _you_... I love my Bentley, I love Queen, I love this bookshop, I love getting drunk on expensive wine, I love—”

“Oh no, what have I started?”

Before Crowley can get any further, Aziraphale pushes himself out of the armchair and back to the sofa. To Crowley. The closer he gets, the more it feels like fighting the tide. He reaches for Crowley’s face, a buoy to help him navigate the waters. He presses their foreheads together.

“I love you, my dear.”

“I love you, angel.”

With Crowley’s words come another wave. Aziraphale shuts his eyes and lets himself float.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://infinitevariety.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
